Phantoms (36 page)

As he went down the narrow stairs, toward the front hall, where the telephone stood on a small table beneath a cheap print of a bad painting, Timothy wondered if Sandler was calling to back out of the agreement.

The professor’s heart began to pound with almost painful force.

The young Indian gentleman said, “I hope is no trouble, sir.”

Then he returned to his own room and closed the door.

Flyte picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“My God, do you get an evening newspaper?” Sandler asked. His voice was shrill, almost hysterical.

Timothy wondered if Sandler was drunk. Was
this
what he considered urgent business?

Before Timothy could respond, Sandler said, “I think it’s happened! By God, Dr. Flyte, I think it’s actually happened! It’s in the newspaper tonight. And on the radio. Not many details yet. But it sure looks as if it’s happened.”

The professor’s worry about the book contract was now compounded by exasperation. “Could you please be more specific, Mr. Sandler?”

“The ancient enemy, Dr. Flyte. One of those creatures has struck again. Just yesterday. A town in California. Some are dead. Most are missing. Hundreds. An entire town. Gone.”

“God help them,” Flyte said.

“I’ve got a friend in the London office of the Associated Press, and he’s read me the latest wire service reports,” Sandler said. “I know things that aren’t in the papers yet. For one thing, the police out there in California have put out an all-points bulletin for you. Apparently, one of the victims had read your book. When the attack came, he locked himself in a bathroom. It got him anyway. But he gained enough time to scrawl your name and the title of your book on the mirror!”

Timothy was speechless. There was a chair beside the telephone. He suddenly needed it.

“The authorities in California don’t understand what’s happened. They don’t even realize
The Ancient Enemy
is the title of a book, and they don’t know what part you play in all this. They think it was a nerve gas attack or an act of biological warfare or even extraterrestrial contact. But the man who wrote your name on that mirror knew better. And so do we. I’ll tell you more in the car.”

“Car?” Timothy said.

“My God, I hope you have a passport!”

“Uh . . . yes.”

“I’m coming by with a car to take you to the airport. I want you to go to California, Dr. Flyte.”

“But—”

“Tonight. There’s an available seat on a flight from Heathrow. I’ve reserved it in your name.”

“But I can’t afford—”

“Your publisher is paying all expenses. Don’t worry. You must go to Snowfield. You won’t be writing just a popularization of
The Ancient Enemy
. Not any more. Now, you’re going to write a well-rounded human story about Snowfield, and all of your material on historical mass disappearances and your theories about the ancient enemy will be supportive of that narrative. Do you see? Won’t it be great?”

“But would it be right for me to rush in there now?”

“What do you mean?” Sandler asked.

“Would it be proper?” Timothy asked worriedly. “Wouldn’t it appear as if I were attempting to cash in on a terrible tragedy?”

“Listen, Dr. Flyte, there are going to be a hundred hustlers in Snowfield, all with book contracts in their back pockets. They’ll rip off your material. If you don’t write
the
book on the subject, one of them will write it at your expense.”

“But hundreds are dead,” Timothy said. He felt ill. “Hundreds. The pain, the tragedy . . .”

Sandler was clearly impatient with the professor’s hesitancy. “Well . . . okay, okay. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I haven’t really stopped to think about the horror of it. But don’t you see—that’s why you
must
be the one to write the ultimate book on the subject. No one else can bring your erudition or compassion to the project.”

“Well. . .”

Seizing on Timothy’s hesitation, Sandler said, “Good. Pack a suitcase fast. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

Sandler hung up, and Timothy sat for a moment, holding the receiver, listening to the dead line. Stunned.

 

 

In the taxi’s headlights, the rain was silvery. It slanted on the wind, like thousands of thin streamers of glittering Christmas tinsel. On the pavement, it puddled in quicksilver pools.

The cabdriver was reckless. The car careened along the slick streets. With one hand, Timothy held tightly to the safety bar on the door. Evidently Burt Sandler had promised a very large tip as a reward for speed.

Sitting next to the professor, Sandler said, “There’ll be a layover in New York, but not too long. One of our people will meet you and shepherd you through. We won’t alert the media in New York. We’ll save the press conference for San Francisco. So be prepared to face an army of eager reporters when you get off the plane there.”

“Couldn’t I just go quietly to Santa Mira and present myself to the authorities there?” Timothy asked unhappily.

“No, no, no!” Sandler said, clearly horrified by the very thought. “We’ve got to have a press conference. You’re the only one with the
answer,
Dr. Flyte. We’ve got to let everyone know that you’re the one. We’ve got to start beating the drum for your next book before some hot-shot author puts aside his latest study of O.J. Simpson and jumps into this thing with both feet!”

“I haven’t even begun to write the book yet.”

“God, I know. And by the time we publish, the demand will be phenomenal!”

The cab turned a corner. Tires squealed. Timothy was thrown against the door.

“A publicist will meet you at the plane in San Francisco. He’ll guide you through the press conference,” Sandler said. “One way or another he’ll get you to Santa Mira. It’s a fairly long drive, so maybe it can be done by helicopter.”

“Helicopter?” Timothy said, astonished.

 

 

The taxi sped through a deep puddle, casting up plumes of silvery water.

The airport was within sight.

Burt Sandler had been talking nonstop since Timothy had gotten into the cab. Now he said, “One more thing. At your press conference, tell them the stories you told me this morning. About the disappearing Mayans. And three thousand Chinese infantrymen who vanished. And be sure to make any references you possibly can to mass disappearances that took place in the U.S.—even before there
was
a United States, even in previous geological eras. That’ll appeal to the American press. Local ties. That always helps. Didn’t the first British colony in America vanish without a trace?”

“Yes. The Roanoke Island colony.”

“Be sure to mention it.”

“But I can’t say conclusively that the disappearance of the Roanoke colony is connected with the ancient enemy.”

“Is there any chance whatsoever that it might’ve been?”

Fascinated, as always, by this subject, Timothy was able, for the first time, to wrench his mind away from the suicidal behavior of the cabdriver. “When a British expedition, funded by Sir Walter Raleigh, returned to the Roanoke colony in March of 1590, they found everyone gone. One hundred and twenty people had vanished without a trace. Countless theories have been advanced regarding their fate. For example, the most popular theory holds that the people at Roanoke Island fell victim to the Croatoan Indians, who lived nearby. The only message left by the colonists was the name of that tribe, hastily slashed into the bark of a tree. But the Croatoans professed to know nothing about the disappearance. And they were peaceful Indians. Not the least bit warlike. Indeed, they had initially helped the colonists settle in. Furthermore, there were no signs of violence at the settlement. No bodies were ever found. No bones. No graves. So you see, even the most widely accepted theory raises a greater number of questions than it answers.”

The taxi swept around another curve, braked abruptly to avoid colliding with a truck.

But now Timothy was only passingly aware of the driver’s daredevil conduct. He continued:

“It occurred to me that the word the colonists had carved into that tree—
Croatoan
—might not have been intended to point an accusing finger. It might have meant that the Croatoans would know what had happened. I read the journals of several British explorers who later talked with the Croatoans about the colony’s disappearance, and there’s evidence the Indians did, indeed, have some idea of what had happened. Or
thought
they knew. But they were not taken seriously when they tried to explain to the white man. The Croatoans reported that, simultaneously with the disappearance of the colonists, there was a great depletion of game in the forests and fields in which the tribe hunted. Virtually all species of wildlife had abruptly dwindled drastically in numbers. A couple of the more perceptive explorers noted in their journals that the Indians regarded the subject with superstitious dread. They seemed to have a religious explanation for the disappearance. But unfortunately, the white men who talked with them about the missing colonists were not interested in Indian superstitions and did not pursue that avenue of enquiry.”

“I gather you’ve researched Croatoan religious beliefs,” Burt Sandler said.

“Yes,” Timothy said. “Not an easy subject, for the tribe has been extinct itself for many, many years. What I’ve found is that the Croatoans were spiritualists. They believed that the spirit endured and walked the earth even after the death of the body, and they believed there were ‘greater spirits’ that manifested themselves in the elements—wind. earth, fire, water, and so forth. Most important of all—as far as we’re concerned—they also believed in an
evil
spirit, a source of
all
evil, an equivalent to the Christians’ Satan. I forget the exact Indian word for it, but it translates roughly as He Who Can Be Anything Yet is Nothing.”

“My God,” Sandler said. “That’s not a bad description of the ancient enemy.”

“Sometimes there are truths hidden in superstitions. The Croatoans believed that both the wildlife and the colonists had been taken away by He Who Can Be Anything Yet is Nothing. So . . . while I cannot say conclusively that the ancient enemy had something to do with the disappearance of the Roanoke Islanders, it seems to me sufficient reason to consider the possibility.”

“Fantastic!” Sandler said. “Tell them all of that at the press conference in San Francisco. Just the way you’ve told me.”

The taxi squealed to a stop in front of the terminal.

Burt Sandler shoved a fistful of five-pound notes into the driver’s hand. He glanced at his watch. “Dr. Flyte, let’s get you on that plane.”

 

 

From his window seat, Timothy Flyte watched the city lights disappearing beneath the storm clouds. The jet speared upward through the thin rain. Soon, they rose above the overcast; the storm was below them, clear sky overhead. The rays of the moon bounced off the churning tops of the clouds, and the night beyond the plane was filled with soft, eerie light.

The seatbelt sign winked off.

He unbuckled but couldn’t relax. His mind was churning just as the storm clouds were.

The stewardess came around, offering drinks. He asked for Scotch.

He felt like a coiled spring. Overnight, his life had changed. There had been more excitement in this one day than in the entire past year.

The tension that gripped him was not unpleasant. He was more than happy to slough off his dreary existence; he was putting on a new and better life as quickly as he might have put on a new suit of clothes. He was risking ridicule and all the old familiar accusations by going public with his theories again. But there was also a chance that he would at last be vindicated.

The Scotch came, and he drank it. He ordered another. Slowly, he relaxed.

Beyond the plane, the night was vast.

From the barred window of the temporary holding cell, Fletcher Kale had a good view of the street. All morning he watched the reporters congregating. Something really big had happened.

Some of the other inmates were sharing news cell to cell, but none of them would share anything with Kale.

They hated him. Frequently, they taunted him, called him a baby killer. Even in jail, there were social classes, and no one was farther down the ladder than child killers.

It was almost funny. Even car thieves, muggers, burglars, holdup men, and embezzlers needed to feel morally superior to someone. So they reviled and persecuted anyone who had harmed a child, and somehow that made them feel like priests and bishops by comparison.

Fools. Kale despised them.

He didn’t ask anyone to share information with him. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of freezing him out.

He stretched out on his bunk and daydreamed about his magnificent destiny: fame, power, wealth . . .

At eleven-thirty, he was still lying on his bunk when they came to take him to the courthouse for arraignment on two counts of murder. The cellblock guard unlocked the door. Another man—a gray-haired, pot-bellied deputy—came in and put handcuffs on Kale.

“We’re shorthanded today,” he told Kale. “I’m the only one detailed for this. But don’t you get some damn-fool idea that you’d have a chance to make a break for it. You’re cuffed, and I’ve got the gun, and nothing would please me as much as shooting your ass off.”

In both the guard’s and the deputy’s eyes, there was loathing.

At last, the possibility of spending the rest of his life in prison became real to Kale. To his surprise, he began to cry as they led him out of the cell.

The other prisoners hooted and laughed and called him names.

The potbellied man prodded Kale in the ribs. “Get a move on.”

Kale stumbled along the corridor on weak legs, through a security gate that rolled open for them, out of the cellblock, into another hall. The guard remained behind, but the deputy prodded Kale toward the elevators, prodded him too often and too hard, even when it wasn’t necessary. Kale felt his self-pity giving way to anger.